ROMAN
Nearly a month and a half after Sasha’s accident, I was able to touch her the way I wanted. She’d been begging me to fuck her, but I kept refusing, opting to kiss her instead and tell her how much I loved her and wanted her to heal fully.
She was tough to resist, though.
I knew that while it had been two months since her accident, she was still recovering. I’d noticed her pauses and her struggles as she walked up stairs or when she’d just space out.
Dr. Scott and Dr. Winkle mentioned that having a traumatic brain injury could cause her to blank sometimes, struggle with her memory as I’d noticed recently, and her personality might be a little different.
It was simple things, like forgetting why she walked into a room or stopping mid-sentence to look at me in confusion. I’d gently redirect her to the conversation, reminding her what she was saying, and she’d give me a sheepish look, apologize, and continue.
And sometimes she didn’t. She wouldn’t remember what she was saying and shake her head, her cheeks red.
I knew it was part of the healing process, and reminded her of it. It seemed to help because she’d kiss me gently and thank me for not giving up on her.
I would never give up on her.
She and Sophia were my entire world now.
I’d let Sophia go to her grandparents’ for the weekend. Kathy had picked her up today, and to say they were both ecstatic was an understatement. All Sophia had been talking about was Nana Kat and Papa J.
I needed this weekend alone with Sasha.
It was time to say what I really needed to tell her.
“It smells so good in here,” she said, coming into the kitchen as I worked on a lasagna.
“I’m making dinner.” I grinned at her, making her chuckle.
“Fine dining in our pajamas?”
“You know it, baby,” I said, taking in the pretty pink nightie she wore.
“Am I the only one who is going to wear them?” she pressed as she took a seat at the kitchen island.
I looked down at my suit.
“You’re right.” Immediately, I took off my suit right in the middle of the kitchen, leaving me in my boxers. She laughed at me, warming my heart.
I loved hearing her laughter.
“Go rest on the couch,” I said, leaning in and brushing my lips against hers. “I got this.”
“Are you sure? I can help?—”
“Baby, go.” I raised my brows at her. She gave me a sheepish look before going to relax on the couch.
I smiled as her favorite sitcom played in the background while she snuggled beneath a throw blanket.
I worked my ass off on finishing dinner, complete with tiramisu I’d made from scratch. I set the table before I went toher. Carefully, I scooped her into my arms and walked her to the kitchen table.
“Mm, I can walk, you know.”
“Or I can carry you,” I replied.
She chuckled at that as I sat her in her spot. I filled her plate with the lasagna and a breadstick before giving her a glass of wine. Taking my spot, I stared at her while she ate, unable to believe she was officially mine.
I was so happy that it took me a long time to recognize the emotion within me. I’d been going to therapy for the last few weeks, and my therapist had helped me to see that it was OK to move on. That moving on didn’t mean forgetting. It meant living, and I deserved it.
